


A Commonplace Love

by suitesamba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Implied Mpreg, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Orphans, Snarry-A-Thon17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-23 22:31:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10728603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: The day after the Battle of Hogwarts, Kreacher takes Harry back to Grimmauld Place, where the surprise of Harry’s life is waiting for him. As Harry devotes his summer to a most unexpected task, he must reconcile his plans for the future, his new responsibilities, and possibilities he didn’t even know he had.





	A Commonplace Love

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my pre-reader, who helped me with valuable feedback, and to badgerlady, who threw me a handful of commas and hyphens then took half of them back again. This story is canon though the end of Book 7, with the obvious exception that Snape didn’t die from Nagini’s bite, and is not canon compliant with “The Cursed Child.”
> 
> Prompt: Voldemort required all his Death Eaters to have children. Can be anything. Perhaps Harry needs to adjust to Severus being a parent or perhaps Harry operates an orphanage since so many Death Eater's children are now homeless after the war. Perhaps Harry takes a shine to one particular child and later discovers the child belongs to Snape.

I was tired. Exhausted. Bill was standing at the door – looking shell-shocked – but I couldn’t have heard him right. He didn’t just say –

ooOOOoo

I’d spent the night – that first long night after Voldemort died for good – in the Charms classroom, making my bed on the pile of pillows Professor Flitwick uses to practice the Summoning Charm. Ron and Ginny had gone home back to the Burrow with their family, and Hermione with them, but I’d told them I wanted to stay. _Needed_ to stay. They’d all hugged me goodbye – Ron harder than the others. He isn’t mad at me. He doesn’t blame me. He’s just hurting. They’re all hurting.

I don’t even remember falling asleep. My bed might have been nothing more than a pile of pillows, but I felt like I was on my old four-poster in Gryffindor Tower. I don’t think I’d ever been so tired in my life. 

I didn’t get as much sleep as I’d hoped, though. Someone woke me at dawn, someone with long, bony fingers and a deep, gravelly voice.

“Master. We needs you. You musts be coming.”

I remember groaning, then opening my eyes to see a glint of gold.

It was Kreacher, still wearing Regulus’ locket. 

“Kreacher?” I struggled to sit up. “What is it?”

“You must comes with me. We needs you.”

“We?” I fumbled for my glasses, then sat up, blinking away sleep.

I really can’t tell you how I found myself in Grimmauld Place seconds later, wearing nothing but an old t-shirt and a pair of pants that had seen better days. I remember Kreacher’s hand grasping my shoulder, then – nothing. Not Apparition – nothing like a Portkey. However house-elves get about, it’s magic far superior to anything we wizards use.

We landed in the foyer.

Someone was crying. No – a lot of someones were crying. 

Kreacher was wringing his hands. 

“We does not know how to make it stop!” he said. “Winky sent for Nelda and Tillie, but the Squibs they is gone.”

“Babies?” I might have been tired but it sure sounded like a nursery full of babies was yelling at full volume.

“Babies,” moaned Kreacher. “Too many babies.”

The crying was definitely coming from upstairs, so I made my way up, feeling oddly out of place in Sirius’ old house. The decapitated house-elves were familiar enough – but babies? And something Kreacher had said unsettled me. Squibs. What Squibs?

I can’t adequately convey what it felt like to open the first bedroom door to find Winky in a rocking chair, a screaming baby on her lap. The room contained five cots, four of them occupied with crying babies.

“Master Harry Potter, sir, we is doomed!” Winky moaned, furiously trying to rock the oversized chair with her too-small body while the baby on her lap howled.

Five minutes later, I collapsed against the wall in the corridor, having discovered fourteen babies and toddlers in the house and at least twenty cots. They were all children of the Death Eaters, if Kreacher was to be believed, anyway, and really, what reason would he have to lie about it? The Dark Lord had conscripted some Squibs for childcare duties, but they had fled when some of the Death Eaters had returned to fetch their own children and alerted them to Voldemort’s death.

I needed help. I had no idea what to do, but these kids were obviously hungry, and by the smell of things, dirty as well. Winky, Nelda and Tillie were doing what they could, and even Kreacher was standing by a cot, letting a toddler chew on his finger. Mrs. Weasley was the obvious one to call, or maybe Madam Pomfrey, but the Weasleys were grieving and Madam Pomfrey had a packed hospital wing – far more people already than she could handle on her own.

But I couldn’t wait any longer and was absolutely clueless as to what to do – so I sent Kreacher to the Burrow to fetch Hermione. She might not know much about babies, but she had a level head and she’d know where to start.

I was sitting on the floor of one of the bedrooms, wishing Kreacher had given me time to at least pull on my jeans, with one tiny, crying baby balanced carefully on my lap while a toddler held on to my arm, demanding his mummy, when Hermione appeared in the doorway, Ron right behind her.

I could have kissed them both.

In short order, Kreacher returned with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Bill and Fleur, Ginny and George, and Charlie and Percy. Despite the noticeable absence of Fred, their red eyes and general state of dishevelment, they had it a lot more together than I did.

Bill, Percy and Charlie set off to search the house for anyone hiding out, something I hadn’t even thought of yet. Mrs. Weasley sent Ron, Ginny and Hermione to the kitchen to start on the bottles and formula, and to look for food for the older babies. At this point, no one seemed intent on figuring out who the babies were, or who they belonged to. 

George, Fleur and I got nappy duty.

It didn’t seem fair, but it just came down to being in the wrong place at the right time. I had zero experience with babies, and I’d never changed a nappy, but Molly set up a rather impressive assembly line on one of the old four-poster beds. 

Honestly – I’d never been so happy to have a wand as I was then. I did most of the banishing and Mrs. Weasley cleaned up each baby and treated the diaper rash before Mr. Weasley pinned them into a fresh nappy. George had dug up a pile of clean baby clothes and managed to get each child into something clean and dry, then Fleur trundled them off downstairs to get them fed.

I could tell that this fiasco was about the best thing that could have happened for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Babies – well, babies were something they knew.

I tried to stay focused on the task, but how could I? I couldn’t help but wonder why there were fourteen babies in Grimmauld Place – fourteen babies born within the last two years, in fact, being cared for in a house-sized nursery. Fourteen babies who hadn’t been picked up by a parent after the final demise of Voldemort.

It wasn’t too hard to guess what had happened to those parents.

I thought of little Teddy, then, my orphaned godson, and started looking at these babies with new eyes.

We were just finishing up with the last baby when Bill appeared at the door. He looked a bit deranged – eyes wide, face – well, surprised didn’t cover it. Shell-shocked, perhaps.

“Bill?” Mr. Weasley handed the baby he’d just ensconced in clean white cotton to Mrs. Weasley, who took her and cuddled her close. “What is it?”

“Snape,” Bill said. “We’ve found Snape.”

ooOOOoo

“You mean – you mean his body is here? At Grimmauld Place?”

His body hadn’t been in the Shrieking Shack when they went back to retrieve it yesterday. I swallowed. I’d seen enough death already – I didn’t want to relive that horrible moment when Nagini….

But Bill was shaking his head. 

“We thought so – at first. But – but his neck. It’s bandaged. He’s alive – unconscious, but alive.”

The baby mewled as Molly clutched her closer. Arthur stepped forward but I was frozen.

“But – I saw him. His throat was ripped open – he can’t be alive. It’s – it’s impossible.”

“We need to get him to St. Mungo’s,” Bill said. 

“No!” 

They all looked at me like I’d grown a second head.

“I mean – are you sure? They all think he’s a Death Eater! One of them…they might….” I really didn’t know how to voice my fear, but I didn’t think we could trust anyone implicitly now. I knew Snape’s true loyalties, but that didn’t mean he was free and clear with the Ministry, or with the rest of wizardkind.

A confusing fifteen minutes later, Kreacher was leading Madam Pomfrey into the tiny alcove bedroom on the top floor where Snape lay unconscious.

Charlie and Percy were guarding the door but they let me peek in, mostly because I numbly kept insisting he couldn’t be alive. I’d stood at the door, staring at his still body on the bed. He lay atop the covers, in the same black robes he’d been wearing in the Shack. They were wrinkled and bloodstained, though there was no blood on his neck, and it was cleanly wrapped in white bandages.

He was thin – thin, and very pale. His boots were arranged side by side at the foot of the bed and his wand rested on the bed table.

I watched at the door until I was very sure I’d seen his chest rise and fall.

Madam Pomfrey looked ten years older. He hair was escaping her wimple, and she took in the Weasleys, the baby Molly still held, and me – I must have looked ridiculous with my scrawny, bare legs standing there without my jeans – but she pulled herself together and hurried in to check on the patient.

Molly and George went down to the kitchen to help with the feedings but the rest of us waited outside the room, looking at each other rather stupidly. At one point, Charlie caught my eye and grinned.

“Could it get any weirder than this?” he asked. 

I didn’t know Charlie well at all – I’d only seen him a couple of times before, but there were parts of him that reminded me of Fred and George. I grinned back.

“Well, maybe if one of those babies is his,” I said, shrugging. I glanced into the room. Madam Pomfrey was still standing beside the bed, wand out, apparently casting diagnostic spells.

Bill and Charlie laughed and even Mr. Weasley grinned a bit. 

“One of the beds on this floor had a pile of clothes on it,” Charlie said. “You might find a pair of jeans that fit you.”

“That is, if you’re tired of running about in your skivvies,” Bill added.

Lo and behold, someone had dumped all of the clothes we’d left behind back in September, and I pulled on a comfortable pair of old jeans. They were a bit loose around the waist, but were a good two inches short.

I’d not even noticed I’d grown.

But they were better than what I’d arrived in and, by the time I got back to Snape’s room, Madam Pomfrey was just coming out. 

“I’d appreciate it if someone told me what exactly is going on here,” she began. She looked completely frazzled.

I looked at Mr. Weasley but he was looking back at me expectantly. Charlie and Bill were no help, either.

So I told her. About Kreacher bringing me here because of the babies, about me sending him to fetch Hermione but his bringing back the entire family, about Bill and Percy and Charlie searching the house. About them finding Snape.

“Babies?”

Of course she’d focus on the fourteen babies and not on the more startling discovery of a living, breathing headmaster who was supposed to be dead. 

“Is he going to be alright?” I asked, ignoring the question and gesturing in toward Snape.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Someone has tended him – he’s had blood replenisher, antivenin, and is in a medical coma.”

“Hank has done that. Hank has tended Mr. Headmaster Sir.”

Everyone jumped a bit as Kreacher’s gravelly voice grated out from a doorway behind Charlie. 

“Hank? What in the name of magic is Hank doing here?” asked Madam Pomfrey, facing Kreacher with her hands on her hips.

“He is having a pact with the headmaster,” Kreacher replied. “He is bound to help him. He is bound to serve at his behest.”

“Who’s Hank?” I asked.

“Hank is a healer – a house-elf healer,” Madam Pomfrey answered. “Well, that explains that. Severus will be fine. He may remain in the medical coma for some time – I’ll summon Hank when I return to Hogwarts and get the relevant information from him.” She frowned, looking back in Snape’s room. “It’s unusual – these house-elves are quite devoted to him. Albus had quite a bit more difficulty with them. Still – all the better, right?” She smiled tiredly at them all. “Now, I’d best check on these babies before I return.”

Fortunately, the kitchen was quite roomy, because soon we were all crowded in there and I found myself with an armful of clean, well-fed and tired baby.

Which was the best kind of baby, I realised after watching Ron try to spoon strained peas into a toddler’s mouth. Ron seemed to be wearing more peas than were actually getting inside the child. His mum was showing him how to scrape the pea residue off the child’s face and shovel it back in its mouth. That made me very glad I could feed myself. Peas were bad enough when they hadn’t spent five minutes plastered to my face with drool.

I started calling my baby Albus. I’m sure he had a name his parents gave him, but no one had any idea what that name was. Mrs. Weasley guessed he was six months old, based on how big he was and how well he held his head up and how much he’d managed to eat before I got down there. He had dark hair, kind of like mine but very straight, but his eyes were blue-grey. He tried to pull my glasses off a few times and everyone laughed a bit at that, but then he tired of the play, stuck his little thumb in his mouth, and fell asleep.

It was nearly eight in the morning now, and Mr. Weasley went back to Hogwarts with Madam Pomfrey to confer with Professor McGonagall and perhaps someone else from the Order, if they could be found. Something had to be done about the babies. The house needed to be guarded in case any of the Death Eaters showed up to claim their children. What was the proper protocol for that situation? And if no one showed up – someone had to figure out who they belonged to so family members could be found to care for them.

And if not family members - well, then foster parents willing to step in for a short time, or possibly forever.

I thought about that as we all sat around the table, everyone holding at least one baby. It was possible that none of these babies had parents anymore. That all of them were orphans. Orphans like me. Like Teddy. 

Like Tom Riddle himself.

“Rose,” Hermione said, when asked what she was calling the little blonde girl in her arms. “I’ve always liked that name for a girl.”

The babies were having exactly the right effect on nearly everyone. Everyone but me, it seemed. The whole situation made me sad – all these children without parents. This was what war brought. It wasn’t just castles left in ruins. But still – there was something comforting about holding a baby, about its utter dependency on the adults of the world to carry on. There was a lesson there – a number of them – and one day I’d see them all a lot more clearly than today.

Soon, Mrs. Weasley hauled Ginny, George and Ron upstairs with her to change the bedding in the cots, then managed to get about half the babies down to sleep. I knew Albus would have slept, but I was getting used to his warm weight in my arms and I wandered upstairs with him, all the way up to Snape’s room. Ron saw me heading up the stairway and rolled his eyes at me. He and Hermione had had to go see for themselves when Percy announced that Snape was alive – and upstairs. Ron had made throttled gargling sounds as he grabbed his neck, unable to communicate verbally that Snape had had his throat ripped out by Nagini and he’d been there to see it. He wasn’t trying to be funny and, had Snape been dead, I’d have thought him rude and disrespectful. But he was honestly shocked, overwhelmed. 

I didn’t blame him. I absolutely do not recommend electively witnessing a bloodbath like that. You just don’t _forget_ those kinds of things.

Snape was, of course, exactly as we’d left him. I knew from Madam Pomfrey that the medical coma spell kept his body temperature steady and kept him hydrated and nourished, as well. His hands were folded together on his belly and his robes spread out on the bedcovers, contrasting starkly against the white. He breathed in and out only a couple times a minute. 

I sat at his bedside and watched him while Albus slept on my shoulder. The last time I’d shared as intimate a moment with him, he’d been pouring out his memories to me while he delved into my eyes.

Yesterday, I’d wandered about the castle and everyone I’d met congratulated me, and most told me what my words had meant to them – the words I’d spoken about Snape while I battled Voldemort. Neville and Ginny both had come to me to tell me they believed me – that as bad as things were at Hogwarts this term, they could have been a hell of a lot worse, but they knew, somehow, that Snape wasn’t exactly what he seemed to be. Oh, everyone hated him, of course. But they hated the Carrows even more.

And now, a day and a lifetime later, he didn’t look so bad, really, lying here all still and pale. And I couldn’t help but think of what he’d done all those years ago – how he’d dedicated his life to watching out for me. How he’d loved my mum, how he’d been her friend. Just a lost boy, really. A lot like me. But he’d made a wrong choice, and I know I could have gone the same way.

I heard commotion downstairs, so I left the room quietly, with a backward glance. I wished it were a nicer room – brighter, maybe. With something reassuring for Snape to look at if he happened to open his eyes.

ooOOOoo

The commotion was centered around Professor McGonagall, arriving from Hogwarts with Mr. Weasley. Kingsley was with them, too, and surprisingly, Neville.

There didn’t seem to be a need for closed-door meetings anymore – even Ginny was allowed to come into the parlour where we all settled. She sat on the floor beside Neville and glanced at me, biting her bottom lip like she always does when she’s nervous, but I just smiled. It was fine. It was all different now. The world was upside down and backward, with lots of room for girlfriends on down the road. I’d craved human touch this past year, when my restless nights were spent agonizing over visions, and Horcruxes, and Hallows. We’d become so much closer – all of us – but it was painfully obvious that Ron and Hermione were going down a road of their own. 

McGonagall had had an idea about the babies – and they were trying to figure out exactly how to accomplish it. Six of us still held children, most of them sleeping by now but a couple of the older ones awake and making a bit of noise. I was beginning to learn some of their temporary names – Rose had gone down for a nap, but Fleur had Claire, and Mrs. Weasley was cradling the tiniest baby, a boy she was calling Ollie. He wasn’t much more than a month old, she thought, and had a shock of brown hair over his forehead but the rest of his head was nearly bald.

McGonagall’s idea? The magical registry – the book at Hogwarts that recorded magical births. Most if not all of these kids should be in it. Yes, there might be a non-magical child or two among them, but it was a good place to start. The book listed the date of birth, the child’s given name, the names of the biological parents, and the child’s current address. There’d be quite a few other children listed, but this would be a place to start, and perhaps they’d recognize some of the names as being known Death Eaters or Voldemort sympathisers.

The problem was that only the headmaster could grant access to the book. Minerva had been appointed acting headmaster, but when she’d tried to access the room where the book was held, she’d not been able to open the door. They’d determined pretty quickly that the problem was that the previous headmaster was still alive. 

Minerva summoned Hank the house-elf, and he delivered the bad news that the headmaster could not be disturbed for at least a month without potentially dire consequences.

Professor McGonagall then summoned Winky. Winky popped in a moment later, wide-eyed, looking as nervous and despondent as ever. McGonagall motioned her to a chair and Winky hauled herself into it, then sat on the edge of the seat, hands folded in her lap, swinging her tiny legs, shaking visibly. 

“I helps here only three days,” she said in a voice so faint we had to lean in to hear her. “The headmaster himself he sends me here from Hogwarts to help with the babies. Winky, he says, Winky, you is to help mind those tiny little witches and wizards and Squibs.”

I caught quite a few people exchanging looks. Squibs? Did house-elves somehow know if a baby wasn’t magical? 

“You took very good care of them, Winky,” McGonagall said in her most serious and reassuring voice. “You did your job well. Do you know to whom they belong? Who are the parents of these babies?”

“They is the babies of the Dark Lord’s army,” she whispered, voice tremulous. “They is to be the new army, a baby army.” She really did look terrified. What had she been told about these babies? That they were some sort of special forces unit trained to terrorise house-elves? Winky wiped her eye with the back of a hand and continued. “But I washes the bottles. I cleans the nappies. I does not touch the babies. Only – only when the Squib witches flee. Only when the babies is crying.”

McGonagall sent the poor elf back to Hogwarts, and we were back to square one.

Kingsley had not seemed predisposed to haul Snape off to the gallows, though he took me aside before he left to tell me that, while he’d do everything in his power to clear Snape, it would certainly be best to keep him here and well guarded for the time being. He told the assembled group that he’d have St. Mungo’s release their birth records for the past two years and that he’d have a little chat with Narcissa Malfoy, who was being detained, and offer her some leniency if she could help identify the children and any family they might have.

ooOOOoo

A month was a very long time to wait.

I stayed at Grimmauld Place. It was mine, after all, and had plenty of beds, even considering the overabundance of baby cots. Luna joined our forces, too. The babies loved her and her radish earrings, and cooed at her silly noises and sunny disposition. Hermione moved into one of the bedrooms on the floor above the parlour – to give the Weasleys space, she said. And while it did give them space, it also gave her privacy – privacy she could enjoy with Ron while Mrs. Weasley was back at the Burrow getting some rest and Mr. Weasley was off on Order or Ministry business.

I caught Ron sneaking out of her room one morning, his hair matted and a particularly dreamy look on his face. We were still close – all of us – but this was one more thing I’d have to adjust to, being the odd man out.

Thankfully, I wouldn’t have a lot of time on my hands to think about it.

Albus was a quiet baby, with wise eyes that liked to watch the world more than participate in it. I carried him with me now and again, and developed a morning routine of picking up my tea and _The Daily Prophet_ , then going to fetch the baby. He’d play on the floor at my feet, learning to scoot and to roll, while I read aloud to Snape. I made sure I read all the news from the Ministry first, but then read the social column – I knew he’d hate it and I felt a little spiteful for doing it, but there wasn’t much chance he could actually hear me. Quidditch scores came next. Wizarding Britain might be in a huge mess, but Quidditch didn’t stop anywhere else because we’d nearly fallen to Voldemort. 

Albus had an odd and immediate affinity for Snape. He’d squealed at him the first time he’d seen him and, when I held him so he could touch Snape’s arm, he’d tried to swipe at his nose. I was much more amused than I should have been at that. He babbled, too, when we were in Snape’s room. I suppose he’d been raised with other children and women around him all the time, and found the presence of adult men rather entertaining.

Four or five days after the Battle, when we’d all pretty much settled into this unexpected and odd routine of running a full-time daycare facility, Kingsley appeared at the door with a thick file folder and an odd look on his face. George, Bill, Fleur, Ron and Hermione were on duty with me, and of course, Mrs. Weasley, who spent most of her time here at Grimmauld Place now. She and Mr. Weasley had been to Hogwarts already, helping to plan the funeral and memorial service for all those who died in the Battle. They’d be buried by the lake by Dumbledore in a few days. But being here seemed to give her a purpose and she had the place running like a fine-tuned machine. She could get the babies to sleep when no one else could, even the little girl we were calling Stella, a scrawny little waif with wise dark eyes who seemed suspicious of everyone and who rarely smiled.

Kingsley sat at the kitchen table and we gathered around. I had Albus again – we’d just finished lunch and a nappy change, and he’d be going down for a nap in a bit. Molly was holding Stella and Hermione had Rose. Little Ollie was with Ron and he was feeding him a bottle, looking completely natural, like he’d been feeding babies for a dozen years. I had a sudden vision of them ten years down the road, Ron contentedly feeding their own tiny son while Hermione balanced their daughter on a knee while she read the morning paper. It was a picture of domestic bliss, but I had a much harder time visualising the same for me.

Kingsley flipped open the folder.

“I’ve just come from a lengthy interview with Narcissa Malfoy,” he said without preamble. “She’s cleared up a few things.”

He looked around the room, eyes coming to rest on the child in my lap. He stared at him for a long moment, then cleared his throat. I instinctively held little Albus closer. I didn’t like the meaning behind that look.

“According to Mrs. Malfoy, the Dark Lord decreed soon after his return that all his loyal followers should have at least one child. It was assumed he was intent on growing his ranks from the inside. His followers hurried to comply, even those who had elected _not_ to have children previously. This resulted in a veritable army of infants in the next three years. Grimmauld Place has been used as a nursery since the Death Eaters gained control of it in September. Several Squibs, all sisters or cousins of the parents, were in charge of the children, some of whom lived here virtually full-time.” He toyed with the pages in the open folder. “As per Mrs. Malfoy, all of the Death Eaters in the inner circle produced children. All of them.”

We were all looking at each other, thinking about that statement. All of them. Alecto Carrow. Bellatrix LeStrange. Petter Pettigrew. Fenrir Greyback. 

Snape.

“Narcissa Malfoy cannot name all of the children. She guessed there were about twenty, all told.” He looked over at me and his eyes drifted down to little Albus. “Narcissa’s sister Bellatrix LeStrange and her husband, Rodolphus, have a six month old son, Thaddeus Marvellus LeStrange. She describes him as having straight dark hair and grey eyes.”

My stomach did an uncomfortable flip. Mrs. Weasley was staring at me – at the baby – looking rather green. I remembered how Bellatrix had met her end, then.

“Is his father alive?” I managed.

Kingsley’s mouth tightened. “No. In fact, there is a good chance that most of these children have lost at least one parent, and that half or more of them are orphans or their remaining parent is imprisoned – quite possibly for life.”

He sounded grim, but it was a grim pronouncement.

“And Mrs. Malfoy – Narcissa – she’ll take him, then?” I asked, feeling a certain reluctance to let little Albus go, even with this now slightly off-putting revelation that his mum was none other than Bellatrix LeStrange.

Kingsley shook his head. “Harry, there is a very real possibility that Narcissa will be spending time in Azkaban.” 

“And the others?” Mrs. Weasley’s voice was strained. “Do we know who any of the other children are now?”

“Amycus Carrow’s son Felix is the youngest,” he said, consulting his notes. “A month old, perhaps two. His mother is – I’m sorry, _was_ \- Beatrice Greyback.”

We all stared at Ron, who was now burping little Ollie. Ron’s face contorted and I know he was struggling to reconcile this wee baby’s identity with the comforting weight in his arms.

“Peter Pettigrew has a two-year-old with Alecto Carrow.” 

We all cringed at that particular pairing.

“The child is a boy, blond, and, as per Mrs. Malfoy, ‘not much to look at.’”

It had to be the child Ginny has given the moniker of “Monkey.” Monkey was an odd-looking child who liked nothing better than mealtime and who was both simple and unusually jovial.

He ran through a few more descriptions before letting out a long breath of air.

Somehow, I knew what was coming.

“Severus Snape.”

We were all looking at him now. I remembered what I said that first day – about how our situation here at Grimmauld Place could get any more weird.

“This one – well, this one is a bit hard to fathom, but she took great delight in sharing it with me.”

I was running through the children in my head, mentally putting their sweet little faces side by side with Snape’s.

Kingsley cleared his throat.

“According to Narcissa, Severus Snape has a one-year old daughter named Lillian. Lillian’s mother was Charity Burbage.”

“Professor Burbage!” That was Hermione. She looked absolutely incredulous. “The Muggle Studies teacher?”

I tried to picture Professor Burbage. She was assumed dead, having disappeared last summer as Voldemort seized control of Hogwarts and the Ministry. I’d never taken Muggle Studies and really couldn’t pull up a clear picture of her in my mind. I looked over at Mrs. Weasley, then.

Stella.

It had to be Stella. She was the right age, and she had the eyes. Those serious, intent eyes in that serious little face. 

Mrs. Weasley knew as well.

I could see it in her eyes, in her posture. Nearly everyone was staring at Stella now, in fact. There were only two little girls of that age, and it seemed quite obvious that our little Stella was actually Lillian Snape. 

“Snape has a daughter.”

That was Ron. The statement hung in the air. Ron jiggled baby Ollie – Felix just didn’t seem to suit this particular baby.

“Stella…?” That was Hermione. 

“But – she’s – she must have been born at the end of term,” Hermione was saying. “I don’t recall Professor Burbage being pregnant.”

“Concealing charms,” Mrs. Weasley surmised. “The students probably didn’t realise – she may have kept it from the staff as well.”

“But - _Snape_ ….” George, who did less talking and more random staring these days than was comfortable, surprised us all by speaking up. He raised his eyebrows dramatically as all heads swiveled toward him. “Snape and _Burbage_!”

“Snape and _anyone_ ,” Ron said, dramatically emphasising the last word.

“Ronald!” Mrs. Weasley turned her disapproving gaze on her youngest son. 

“Narcissa Malfoy did emphasise that the Dark Lord was quite adamant that each and every one of his loyal followers produce a biological child.” Kingsley looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Like having to deal with more than a dozen unclaimed children while simultaneously putting the Wizarding world back together was quite possibly the straw that broke the camel’s back.

I adjusted little Albus – alright, _Thaddeus_ \- on my lap. My eyes were still on little… little _Lillian_. The significance of the name didn’t escape me. But how could I help fixating on the circumstances of her birth? After all, Snape wasn’t a pureblood. Riddle had to have known that. Why would he encourage more part-Muggle blood? Why would he want Snape to produce a child?

I had to ask.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Snape wasn’t a pureblood. Why would Voldemort want him to have a child, too?”

Kingsley seemed uncomfortable. Hermione, though, was watching me with interest. She’d really shown her stuff this last week – pitching in wherever she was needed and helping to keep the Weasleys going when the wounds from Fred’s loss were so horribly fresh. She’d wondered aloud a couple days ago how the Hogwarts library had fared – I know she’d give just about anything to be there helping to repair the damage. But she’d not mentioned it again – she did what Molly asked her to do, without complaint, though I imagine her experience with babies was about the same as mine.

Kingsley apparently decided to try to answer my question. “I think – well, from what Narcissa Malfoy told me – I think it was more about punishing Charity Burbage. She believes Snape was ordered to pursue Charity. When the child was born, the Dark Lord had them both abducted. He placed the child in the care of one of his followers, then tortured and killed her.”

I looked down at Albus’ head, seething inside. I would never stop hating that man and what he stood for.

“It might help to understand Charity Burbage’s background,” Kingsley added. “She was a pureblood, but her mother died when she was a girl and her father then married a Muggle. She was raised in a Muggle household and had quite an affinity for all things Muggle.”

“Do you remember Professor Burbage, Harry?” Hermione asked me. She had that look – that look that told me she knew something I didn’t. 

Professor Burbage had come to Hogwarts our fifth year, I think. Which meant I'd been there two years with her, but I hadn’t taken Muggle studies.

I shook my head. “No – not really.” 

Ron snorted. “You were too busy following Malfoy around to notice.”

He was right, of course. George even grinned.

Hermione ignored them. “She had red hair,” she said quietly. “Like your mum.”

She didn’t say, “like most of the people sitting at this table.” No – she wanted me to connect Professor Burbage to my mum and, of course, my mum to Snape.

“Oh.” I looked around. Sometimes I forget not everyone saw those memories. “Right. I remember now.”

I didn’t, of course. But it hardly mattered.

There was a bit more discussion about the children, and then Kingsley announced that he’d be back in the morning with Professor McGonagall.

“There’s one more thing,” he said. “We expect to have access to the magical children registry by tomorrow.” He went on to explain that the Board of Governors had ruled to appoint Professor McGonagall Deputy Headmistress and declare the headmaster incapacitated. This course of action had been suggested by Kingsley, given that Snape’s body hadn’t been officially located – and there did remain a chance he was still alive. Minerva, he said, was on her way to Hogwarts from the Board of Governors’ meeting to try to access the book. 

It was an interesting evening.

Here we were, only a week after a catastrophic battle that had left all of us scarred, that killed our friends and families. We should be mourning. Trying to pick up the pieces of our lives, of the Wizarding world, and struggling to put them all back together. We should be waking up each morning to a Voldemort-free world, taking a long moment to greet the rising sun before the reality of the absences set in – George without his Fred. Little Teddy in his grandmother’s arms, never again to feel his mother’s kiss on his baby soft cheek.

A week ago, I hadn’t known just how soft a baby’s cheek was.

But now, instead of mourning or putting the pieces of our broken lives back together, we were rolling out of bed at all hours, rocking crying babies, changing nappies, heating bottles.

And even though I should have been exhausted – from the babies getting us up at night, from the last year when sleep was as elusive as the Horcruxes – I still had trouble sleeping. And now, when I couldn’t sleep, I went up to Snape’s room.

I was drawn to it somehow, to him. It was a quiet little room, simple and clean. I had an idea that Kreacher had some help with the cleaning – I’d seen him in the formal parlour yesterday with three house-elves, and he’d looked a bit chagrinned to be caught. It was cool up there in Snape’s little cubbyhole of a bedroom, and the light from the northeast-facing window was muted when the sun was up. I admit I’ve always been drawn to Snape – fascinated by him, loving to hate him. And as horrible as his injuries were, as marvelous as his survival, I couldn't deny that looking and thinking my fill was very satisfying when he couldn't open his mouth or eyes and spew venom at me.

At night, when I was pacing the corridors with a fussy baby, I went up there sometimes. I knew the babies wouldn’t wake Snape, no matter how much they might fuss, so I’d duck in there and sit on the chair by his bed. Sometimes I sang to the babies – nonsense songs I made up as I went, or one of the songs we learned in school when I was little. And sometimes I just talked to Snape – my voice seemed to calm the babies. I learned that about babies quickly, and practiced it later with my own. They don’t especially like things to be too quiet, and if you speak softly while they’re nestled against your heart, they’re more likely to fall back asleep.

But that night was a bit different. 

At least two people stayed overnight here every night, usually more. The idea was that I shouldn’t have to get up with the crying babies every night, but I usually did. And that night, they’ were fussier than usual. By the time Fleur woke me because everyone else was already up, it was little Stella – Snape’s Lillian – who was screaming. She was already nearly a year old and usually slept all night, but Fleur explained that there was just too much commotion in her room and she wouldn’t settle back down.

I’d kind of avoided her most of the day. I had been – was still – attached to Albus. Thaddeus. They kept telling me to use their given names if I knew them, but it was really difficult. “You’ll have children of your own some day, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley told me fondly. “You can name a boy of your own Albus. This one already has a name.”

But tonight, Albus was sleeping and it was Lillian who needed me. She came to me reluctantly but Fleur had handed me her water cup, and I hummed to her as I paced the third floor corridor. Her little hands settled around my neck and she pulled at my hair. She was a warm weight against my shoulder and I thought, then, about those months on the run, in that tent, about the comfort of another body against your own. I think, had we been smart, we’d have slept on a pile in the middle of the floor, or huddled together on a single bunk, and kept the demons at bay.

I sat on the chair in Snape’s room, settled Lillian on my lap, and let her sip her water for a bit. She was half-awake still and she eyed Snape, then pointed at him and looked at me as if to say, “Hey – did you happen to notice we’re not alone in here?” She didn’t act as if she knew him. She didn’t say Dada, and she didn’t try to go to him. But she watched him, with those dark eyes, her dark auburn hair in wisps about her small, pale face. 

She was so very serious. Not like the other children at all. 

I wondered who raised her. Who cared for her this past year, with her mother dead, her father at Hogwarts. Did she live in full-time daycare of sorts? Was her life a long stream of faces, coming and going, while she stayed here in a dark old house hidden away from a bright and beautiful world?

She tired of watching the still man on the bed and fell asleep again in my arms but, for some reason, I stayed there, watching Snape.

I had his memories with me, buried inside a pair of socks in my bedroom. Sometimes I took them out and held the vial in my hand, and I remembered what I’d seen during that darkest of all hours in the headmaster’s office. Snape – a child in too-big, old-fashioned clothing, watching the beautiful world but somehow not belonging to it. Taking a daisy from my mother’s hand. Lying beside her in the sunlight.

Dreaming of a world, a life, that was not to be.

I couldn’t help but see myself in him somehow.

And I envied him – oh how I envied him. He knew my mum. He was her friend. He loved her. 

Had loved her. Still loved her. 

I cradled Snape’s child against me and stopped trying to make sense of this world. What was real, what was whole and warm and substantial, was this child – these children.

I was already beginning to rethink my future. Somehow, some way, I’d fallen into a parallel universe. 

You really shouldn’t decide the course of your life without understanding all your options.

ooOOOoo

Professor McGonagall arrived with Kingsley at ten o’clock sharp the next morning. I was sitting bleary-eyed at the kitchen table, hand wrapped around a cooling mug of strong tea.

But I abandoned my tea as we all moved up to the formal parlour and crowded in. Mr. Weasley and Percy had gone back to their jobs at the Ministry, and George had been hauled off to their shop in Diagon Alley by Angelina and Lee. We all thought it a good idea that he give it a go – and assured him he could come back anytime for some late-night nappy changes if he needed a baby fix. Ginny had gone to Hogwarts with Luna and Neville to help with the cleanup of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw towers, which had received more damage than the other houses. 

I had been asleep when they left, and they hadn’t asked me to come with them. They knew me well enough to know that I wouldn’t have gone – not yet. I told myself it was the babies, but you always know when you’re fooling yourself.

We were a hodgepodge of tired nannies, sleeping babies and crabby toddlers. It was our new normal, but Kingsley and Professor McGonagall exchanged an amused look.

An hour later, we’d more or less identified all of the children currently in our care. Two and a half hours, a dozen nappy changes and several fire calls to the Ministry after that, we’d determined that our best-case scenario was finding surviving family members willing and able to take eight of the children.

“Charity’s parents are living in France,” McGonagall said as we ran down the list again. “They’re relatively young – I’m sure they’ll take Lillian.”

“What? No!”

I’d been sitting on the floor holding Ollie and he squalled a bit as I shouted.

“Here, Harry – let me take him.” Hermione lifted the baby from my arms and settled him against her, and I stood. I didn’t know what I was going to say, but what Professor McGonagall had suggested – well, it was just _wrong_.

“Snape’s her father,” I began. “He’s alive. He’s here. You can’t – you can’t just give her to someone else.” 

“The Burbages are her grandparents, Harry,” McGonagall said, voice gentle but eyes keen as she watched me. 

“They’re good people, Harry,” Kingsley assured me. “After losing Charity – well, I have an idea they’ll be thrilled to find that her daughter survived.”

“But so did her father,” I said. “And if they get her now – well, _think_ about it. With his reputation, with what everyone just _assumes_ about him, he’d never get her back!”

McGonagall and Kingsley exchanged a glance. I knew they thought Snape wouldn’t want his daughter – that he’d be fine sending her to France. They both began to speak at once, but McGonagall closed her mouth and motioned for Kingsley to continue.

“Harry, we don’t even know that Sev – Professor Snape – had anything to do with his daughter. He certainly didn’t care for her at Hogwarts. He’s been injured quite gravely. The road before him to recovery may be a long one – a very long one. And until he is awake again, we won’t know what his actual prospects are. There may be damage – irreparable damage.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” I said. “And – well, we should give him a chance. We should let _him_ decide.”

McGonagall’s shrewd eyes were on me. She’s sharp – I could practically see her analysing my reaction, applying all my own horrible experiences with the Dursleys to it. “I agree, Harry. Professor Snape should make that choice. But are you willing to provide care for Lillian until he is capable of making a reasoned and sound decision?”

“Of course I am!” What a ridiculous question. I lived here – the place was full of babies anyway.

“And more important, are you willing to accept the decision he makes, even if he decides to place her with her grandparents?”

I made a huge effort not to hesitate but I know I wasn’t as quick to respond this time. “He’s her father,” I said. “It’s his choice.”

It wasn’t really an answer but she nodded, glanced at Mrs. Weasley, who nodded as well, as if agreeing with an unvoiced question.

It was Kingsley’s turn to speak.

“Harry, we will begin placing these babies with their families as soon as possible. While your efforts on behalf of these children are commendable, you can’t be expected to put your lives aside indefinitely.”

He had a point, of course. 

The funerals would be the day after tomorrow. They’d been scrambling to find care for the children, and had settled on Winky and her house-elf helpers and three pediatric medi-witches and wizards from St. Mungo’s. 

“Once we place the children we can with their surviving parents or family members, we’ll need to consider the placement of those remaining,” Kingsley stated. “I do have some concerns, given….” He stopped and wiped his brow with a folded handkerchief. 

We all knew what he was about to say. 

Given that these particular babies were the children of Death Eaters.

I couldn’t deny it, though I hated that about myself. That I had loved these babies right away, even knowing that they were the children of Death Eaters. But that I had struggled to continue with that unbiased love once I knew their actual parentage.

The puzzle, the enigma, was that little Stella – Snape’s Lillian – was much more interesting, more lovable, when I put “Snape” on the end of her name.

Oh, I was fooling myself. That wasn’t really a puzzle at all. I’d been fascinated by Snape since I was eleven years old – fascinated in an ‘I hate the greasy git’ kind of way. But that fascination had turned into a kind of obsession. That my interest spilled over to his daughter was hardly surprising.

And I’d been right, hadn’t I? There was always a lot more to Snape than what you saw on the surface.

“We’ll find homes for all of them,” Mrs. Weasley insisted. She took a deep breath, her eyes softening. “Arthur and I have room – in our home, in our hearts.”

Ron nearly dropped little Albus. His mum actually laughed.

“We’re not replacing anyone, Ron,” she said. “And the Ministry may indeed find someone younger, more appropriate.” She glanced over at little Ollie, who was sleeping in Hermione’s arms. The look in her face – wow. If I could bottle that look, I could sell liquid love. 

Bill cleared his throat. “Fleur and I have already discussed it,” he said, squeezing his wife’s hand. “We’re also willing to take a child. It’s time for the Wizarding world to heal, and letting go of our prejudices is a good way to start.”

I can’t say I was surprised – these kids just had a way of worming themselves into your heart. I never really knew that about kids. I mean – I’ve always wanted them. Well – a family, I guess. A family of my own. 

Of course, in that dream of a future grown-up life, I was married to Ginny and working as an Auror.

ooOOOoo

Five of the children had been placed with their families and two more were in process, with their relatives being thoroughly vetted, when Snape woke up.

The funerals were over. I’d not left all the babies behind that day. I’d had Teddy, my godson, to hold, and his granny, Andromeda, there beside me. It was rough. Worse, I think, than the day of the Battle itself. It was raw then, fresh and new, but there was also the elation of Voldemort’s destruction, the knowledge that it was really over at last.

That against all odds, I’d survived.

But the day of the funeral, there were rows of white boxes, and people dressed in their finest robes, crying in the sunshine, all against the backdrop of Dumbledore’s shining white tomb, reflected in ripples in the lake behind it.

Snape woke up nearly a month after Voldemort breathed his last breath. He woke up on the first of June, at ten o’clock in the morning. Hank was in the room, and Madam Pomfrey. Kingsley and I waited in the corridor – Kingsley to review his status with him if he was deemed well enough to be able to process the information, and me – well, I was just there.

Madam Pomfrey came out of the room ten minutes after Hank had cast the spell to bring Snape out of the medical coma. She was all smiles.

“He’s doing well. His heart is strong and vitals are good. He can see and hear, though he hasn’t managed any words yet and we’re not allowing him to move other than to make a loose fist and scowl at us.”

She and Kingsley spoke for a few more minutes, then she disappeared back into the room. 

Kingsley was finally allowed to enter after nearly an hour had passed. Hank had snapped away, but Madam Pomfrey came out and suggested she take a look at Lillian. I was more than happy to go fetch her. Mrs. Weasley was in one of the small parlours on the middle floor with the toddlers, and Lillian smiled tentatively when she saw me and held out her hands to be lifted up.

She’d learned a word from me, something simple she could breathe out without a good deal of effort.

“Hi there,” I said as I hoisted her into my arms.

“Hi,” she breathed, giving me the kind of smile now that must melt a dad’s heart when he picks up his child.

Madam Pomfrey said she was doing wonderfully. She had six teeth, four on the bottom and two on top,, and was on track with her size and development. Her hair was wavy and auburn – neither red nor brown – but she had Snape’s sharp eyes and long fingers and, when she wasn’t smiling, when she was regarding the world with careful skepticism, she was Snape through and through.

I took her back to Mrs. Weasley, as I didn’t think it wise to introduce her to her father just yet. Kingsley was just coming out of Snape’s room, and he nodded at us and said he had to get back to the Ministry, but that he’d return in a day or two for a more formal interview with Snape.

I went into Snape’s room then, behind Madam Pomfrey. She would be coming to check on Snape every day, or so I’d been told, but we’d be in charge of his day-to-day care. I suppose he knew by now that he was at Grimmauld Place, and that I was here, that I’d lived after all.

It shouldn’t be such a shock to him – considering he’d lived after all, too.

He was weak. He could barely squeeze Madam Pomfrey’s hand when she asked him to. His gaze met mine over her shoulder and he studied me, his eyes just as I remembered.

“Can you speak, Severus?” asked Madam Pomfrey, holding a cup with a straw out to him so he could sip some water. 

He made a sound, the most raspy, guttural ‘yes’ I’d ever heard. The sound was startling, and worrisome, but Madam Pomfrey seemed to think it wonderful.

“Very good, Headmaster. Very good.” She rested her hand on his shoulder, a familiar gesture she surely used with all of her patients, but it seemed forward with this particular one. “Now, don’t strain it. You’ve a long road ahead of you.” She turned to me. “Harry here is going to be helping to care for you during your recovery, and you’re to be polite to him, and to the others who are living here.” She didn’t go into any more detail, which was perfectly fine with me. “We’re going to need some blood to assess the level of poison left in your system. Harry – why don’t you come back in half an hour? I’ll be finished up here by then, and I can give you instructions for the next few hours.”

The next few hours? 

How was this even going to work? Was Snape going to need full-time monitoring?

Fortunately, magic was a wonderful thing and my fears were groundless.

Hygiene spells would take care of most everything not related to food and medication, at least until he was able to walk to and from the loo himself. We’d have to make sure he took his potions, change the bandages on his neck, apply the healing cream and help him eat and drink.

And now that he was no longer in the coma and his systems were back on-line, we’d have to make sure he didn’t stay in any one position for more than a couple hours at a time.

But Snape had fallen asleep before she’d gone through even half of all that with me.

“He’ll sleep a lot,” she said. “Don’t be concerned unless he refuses to eat or drink. Fire call me if he can’t or won’t eat, if he vomits, or if he’s starts to run a fever.” She taught me the spell to check his temperature, then told me to give him nothing but broth for the first day, but to let him sleep a few more hours before giving him any. I went to the kitchen to confer with Fleur, who was on duty there, and she assured me there would be ‘fond brun du boef” for ‘ze headmaster’ when he awoke.

He didn’t speak again for nearly a week.

I followed Madam Pomfrey’s orders to the letter. Moving him was the hardest thing to do, though it seemed he hardly weighed anything and I was fully capable of repositioning him without help. It was just so intimate – grasping him under his arms and hoisting him up until he was sitting against his pillows, or turning him onto his side by crawling on the bed beside him and rolling him. Listening to the normal sounds of a human body – the gurgling stomach, creaking bones, raspy exhales of breath. Even spooning the broth into his mouth was intimate – Snape was still too weak to hold a serviette, or lift it to wipe his mouth. I thought he must hate having no control, not being able to snark at me or express his displeasure at his appointed caretaker.

I waited a week before I mentioned the child. I wondered why he never asked about her, or about the other children. Surely he knew – he _must_ have known – they were at Grimmauld Place. Winky had said that the headmaster had sent her, hadn’t she?

We were careful to keep the noise and commotion off the top floor where Snape was convalescing. There was a lot of tip-toeing about, hushed voices in the corridor, near-whispers as we spoke to him in the room. He’d been surprisingly cooperative, though he always seemed to be looking at me suspiciously, as if trying to determine just why I was helping him instead of smothering him with a pillow while he was too weak to resist.

But a week in, he was beginning to be able to move a bit himself. He could nearly roll from his side to his back, and could hold the serviette and dab at his mouth. We’d graduated from broth to soup, applesauce, yoghourt, rice cereal. 

And tea. Spoonful by spoonful at first, then later sips from the tepid liquid in the cup held to his lips. 

“Since you’re getting better, I thought you should hear a bit about the children,” I said one afternoon as I set the nearly empty mug of tea on the bed-table and watched him laboriously wipe at his mouth.

He looked at me oddly. 

“Children?” he rasped, and I realised, through my surprise that he’d actually said something, that I hadn’t been clear enough.

“The babies,” I clarified. “There were fourteen of them here at Grimmauld Place when Kreacher brought me here the day after the Battle. There were more, apparently, but some of their parents came for them before we arrived.”

Sometimes I wondered if he’d lost some of his memories when he gifted me what I needed at the Shrieking Shack – he’d never asked why I was still alive, since I should have died to assure that Voldemort left this world for good. He didn’t ask about the result of the war, though I’d referred to it more than once. _Now that he’s gone for good,_ I’d say. Or I might mention the repair and rebuilding at Hogwarts. And Kingsley had been here as well, explaining that the Ministry would not be pressing charges against him, that his role as Albus’ spy had been recognized, and that he was under Ministry protection until they could be assured he would be safe out in the Wizarding public.

He seemed a bit confused at first about these babies, so I eased into it.

“We know that all the Death Eaters were required to have children,” I said. “Narcissa Malfoy told Kingsley when we needed to identify the children we found here. Quite a few of them lost both their parents.”

He closed his eyes, then, and brought his hand up to his neck. I had noticed him doing this often, resting his hand on the bandages.

“I need to talk to you about Lillian,” I said, my voice steady and quiet, when he didn’t open his eyes again. 

“Narcissa was to care for her,” he said at last. Those were a lot of words for Snape with his throat only now beginning to heal now that the poison had largely been worked from his body. 

“She’s on house arrest at Malfoy Manor,” I explained. I watched Snape’s hand clench at the sheets. “Bellatrix is dead and Narcissa can’t even take her nephew.”

Snape opened his eyes again, blinking at me, absorbing this new information.

“Professor McGonagall suggested Lillian go to her grandparents in France,” I said, watching his eyes as I spoke. “But I convinced them to let her stay here, until you were better and could think about your options.”

Later, when he was his old acerbic self, or a slightly mellowed version of it, when I called him Severus and not Professor, he’d ask me how I could ever have believed he’d had a child with someone as good, as lovely, as Charity Burbage. That Lillian, the second brightest spot in my life, could belong to a man as damaged, as broken as he. 

But now, in this moment, Lillian was a little girl I barely knew and Severus Snape was just a very sick man, one I had loathed, one I came to admire, but I didn’t yet know his heart.

He didn’t reply immediately. He took his time considering, perhaps reacquainting himself with the memory of a daughter he didn’t really know, a child he hadn’t expected to have to deal with after Dumbledore’s plan came to fruition. How it must have felt for him to have to face it now, especially in front of me, one of his students, the one whose very existence had nearly killed him. The one whose existence had robbed him of the woman he’d loved.

“I cannot care for her,” he rasped at last, his hand still on the bandages around his neck. “She doesn’t know me.”

It wasn’t a definitive no. He hadn’t said, “Send her to France,” or, “Let them have her.”

“You have time to think about it,” I said. “She’s not the only one here.”

He nodded, but he looked troubled – as if the additional weight of this decision was almost more than his tired mind and body could handle.

“I could bring her up here,” I said after a long, quiet moment. “Maybe later this week, when you’re feeling a little stronger?”

When he spoke, it wasn’t to answer my question.

“Charity had a sister – a sister who died,” he said, voice so low I had to lean forward to hear him. “Her name was Lillian.”

Oh.

He obviously felt it was important to tell me this, to expend the effort to utter so many words all strung together. Speaking tired him.

But again, he hadn’t answered my question. Not a yes – bring her here. 

But not a no, either.

I decided to give it a day or two, see how he was faring, then bring Lillian up to meet her da.

ooOOOoo

Apparently, the Ministry Children’s Welfare Department would normally take charge of placing children, vetting potential families, and finding temporary caregivers. But because we were willing to continue, and Grimmauld Place was equipped with everything needed, their involvement was hardly noticeable. To be honest, they were overloaded. There were other children who’d lost their parents, children of witches and wizards who hadn’t been on the Dark Lord’s side. Children were children – they all needed and deserved compassion and care. But the caseload was overwhelming and, ultimately, any of the current caregivers were allowed to petition to foster then adopt one of the unclaimed children already in our care.

Molly – Mrs. Weasley kept reminding me that I was grown up now and should call her that – and Arthur had already petitioned for little Ollie. I learned from Ron that Ginny would have had this particular name had she followed tradition and been born a boy. Bill and Fleur had also petitioned for a child and had fallen in love with the other one-year-old girl, and were calling her Adele.

Word had somehow reached the Creevys and they came forward as well, bringing Dennis with them to Grimmauld Place to meet the other three children still here. I was touched that they latched on to Monkey. We knew by then that the child wasn’t magical – his name didn’t appear in the Hogwarts book. But that wasn’t a consideration – not really. They were Muggles themselves who’d borne two magical sons. They fell in love with the little guy before they knew.

Some would say it wasn’t wise that these children go to families that had just experienced a tragic loss. That they shouldn’t bear the weight of the dead loved one, that they shouldn’t be expected to fill a bottomless hole in a family. But I thought differently. I knew that these particular families had more love to give than they even knew what to do with. I was thrilled that the Weasley family would grow, and the Creevys.

I even began to think about adopting a child myself.

Molly, however, helped me see that the availability of a child wasn’t the best reason to start down that particular road. 

Still, I loved the kids. With more than half of them in permanent homes now, Grimmauld Place was a lot less chaotic and, while everyone continued to help out, their shifts were less frequent.

Hermione and Ron were getting ready to go to Australia. Hermione had been consulting with Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall, practicing different techniques to remove the memory blocks she’d placed on her parents. Charlie was still on leave from the preserve but he spent most of his time at Hogwarts helping with the reconstruction. Ginny was there as well, though she came by Grimmauld Place to help every other evening. We sometimes talked late at night, sitting outside on the back porch and looking at the stars. It was comfortable, and intimate, but not in the way it had been. Better for me, for both of us. We were young, trying to figure things out. And the end of Voldemort had opened up new worlds to both of us.

Life was continuing for everyone who’d survived and decisions for the future being made. I’d already decided to study for my N.E.W.T.s and to sit them when they were offered next, but to not go back to Hogwarts for the next term. Kingsley, Professor McGonagall, and Molly and Arthur had ganged up on me a few days ago to discuss my future plans, but I’d asked for a couple more weeks to think about it.

I think Molly, at least, knew what I was waiting for. 

I took Lillian up to meet her father on a Wednesday morning, when Bill and Fleur were busy with a Ministry official who’d come to do adoption interviews and Molly was manning the nursery. She smiled at me, grateful, when I came for Lillian. She had her hands full already. I changed Lillian’s nappy, hardly crinkling my nose, and the baby looked at me quite seriously.

“Hi.”

“Hi there, you,” I answered.

She chewed on her hand, smiling at me through her fingers.

Snape was sleeping when we arrived, propped up on a stack of three pillows. His hands were clasped on his belly and he was wearing one of the old-fashioned nightgowns Minerva had brought him from Hogwarts. He was covered with a dark blue quilt, folded back at his belly, and his neck had been freshly wrapped that morning in the stark white bandages Madam Pomfrey supplied.

I’d bandaged it myself – I was accustomed to it now, and no longer recoiled when I saw the wounds. Even half-healed, they were horrible, and he’d carry the scars the rest of his life. Sometimes, when he lifted his hand to his neck, I knew he was feeling their outline, their texture, through the gauze.

Lillian was clutching a toy she favoured – a stuffed unicorn with a crinkly, textured horn. She was teething and usually had some part of the toy in her mouth.

I’d had Kreacher bring up a cup of yoghourt for Snape. He was nearly able to eat it by himself, though his hands were still shaky. I’d also asked for some oats rings for Lillian. She would eat them by the handful, and she often had a couple stuck to her face around her mouth. I wasn’t sure that Snape would approve of that, if he approved of babies at all, but thought it wise to have something she liked with us to distract her. 

Lillian didn’t get distracted easily. Once she focused on something, she was usually intent on it until she got to hold it or stick it in her mouth. When Hermione charmed toy birds to fly around the nursery, the other children laughed and clapped, but Lillian held out her hands, frowning and scolding until Hermione made one fly into her fingers.

So of course, the thing she focused on immediately was Snape.

Or, more precisely, Snape’s nose.

I moved the chair so that Lillian could play on the floor beside the bed, but couldn’t easily get past me and out the door. She pulled herself up and held onto my leg as I leaned forward to rest my hand on Snape’s shoulder to wake him.

He stirred, letting out a long sigh and drawing his daughter’s attention immediately.

She reached out with one hand and grasped the edge of the bed, using it for balance as she stepped forward, leaning against the bed instead of my leg, her hands clutched in the quilt. She wasn’t quite tall enough to see over the mattress, so I lifted her and she melted back against me as Snape’s face came into view.

And while she leaned back against me, she was cautious, not afraid. Interested, as evidenced by the way she studied him, then turned to me, assuring herself she wasn’t abandoned here, then whipping her head around again.

Finally, after she got her fill of this new person in her world, she reached up and touched her nose. 

I bit back a grin.

But there was more to come.

She turned and reached for my nose, squeezing it, a puzzled look on her serious little face.

“Nose,” I said, touching my index finger to the tip of hers.

“Merlin willing she’ll have her mother’s.”

We turned our heads in tandem upon hearing Snape’s rough voice. I smiled – Snape was so darn _Snape_. Sarcastic, direct.

But his eyes – his eyes were focused on the child.

She didn’t smile at him, but she didn’t recoil. She was interested – as a child of one might be interested in anything new that comes into the nursery. I let her sit on my knee, my hand wrapped around her belly.

“I brought you yoghourt,” I said to the headmaster, nodding at the bowl on the nightstand. 

“You brought more than yoghourt,” he said. He licked his lips and I knew he must be thirsty, so I held out the water and he took a couple sips through the straw.

Lillian watched that, too, intrigued, then held out her hand, opening and closing it in the gesture that clearly meant, “Give it to me.”

“Oh, you mean the oat rings?” I asked, shaking the bowl a bit and allowing Lillian to reach in for a handful.

Snape closed his eyes, too tired, I think, to roll them. When he opened them again, Lillian had two o-rings stuck to her chin.

“She is surprisingly small,” he said. Every word was raspy, forced. “She favours her mother.”

“She has your eyes,” I said.

We stared at each other, both of us aware of the irony behind that statement.

He closed his eyes then, and Lillian, oddly attentive, tried out her favorite word.

“Hi,” she said.

Snape opened his eyes, surprised. 

“She talks?”

“She’s a year old. She’s beginning to.” I plucked an oat ring off her chin. Lillian promptly took it from me and palmed it into her mouth.

Snape scrunched up his nose.

Lillian, still watching him, broke out in a rare grin.

“She’s comfortable with you,” Snape said. He spoke so slowly, so softly, his voice so scratchy and damaged that I was surprised the little girl wasn’t afraid. She’d surely never heard anything like it before. And it wasn’t lost on me that he’d yet to address her directly.

“She’s seen a lot of me these last few weeks,” I explained. “But until Kreacher brought me here, I’d never been around babies before.”

“Hi,” Lillian proclaimed, this time waving at Snape by opening and closing her tiny hand. 

“She is drooling.”

I grinned. “Yeah, she’s teething. Madam Pomfrey had a look at her. She’s perfectly healthy. She’s got six teeth already.”

Snape frowned. “Only six?”

I laughed. I’d said something similar to Madam Pomfrey. 

“What the two of us know about children could fit in a thimble,” I said. “But the nice thing is that she has no idea. She’ll like us anyway.” I watched as Lillian dipped her hand into the bowl. Snape was watching her too. Watching her keenly, watching her from a safe distance. 

He was interested, yet he was holding back.

“Us?” he said at last, attempting a scoff. 

“Well, you’re here for the foreseeable future,” I answered. “And so am I.”

He didn’t argue.

“She’s a little girl,” he said, closing his eyes again. “And I’m an old, jaded man.”

“You’re not old,” I said.

But I didn’t argue with the jaded part. 

I stood up and settled Snape’s daughter on my hip.

“I’ll leave the yoghourt for you,” I said. “I’ll be back up in a while in case you need some help.”

I left then, taking Lillian with me. 

“Hi!” she called as we left the room.

I think I heard Snape chuckle.

ooOOOoo

We started visiting Snape every day.

It was up to me to introduce him to Lillian by his proper title, and I did it while he was sleeping on our second visit. 

“That’s your papa,” I said softly into her ear as we settled onto the bedside chair. I’d brought her a plain biscuit this time, and she was already gumming it and making a drooly mess. “He’s sleeping. Can you say hi to Papa?”

“Hi,” she dutifully said, so softly I could barely hear her. She sat on my knee and looked curiously at Snape. He looked very much the same as he had the previous day. Once again, after a moment, she touched her own nose, then touched mine.

Which gave me an idea.

“Nose,” I said. Then, “Do you want to touch Papa’s nose?”

I held her around the waist and leaned down over Snape. She reached out eagerly and pressed a sticky finger to the end of Snape’s substantial nose.

Fortunately, he didn’t have the strength or energy to instinctively swat her hand away, but he opened his eyes and stared crossly at her.

She recoiled a bit at first, but when he didn’t move, she grinned and pressed her finger on his nose once more.

I pulled her away and handed Snape a handkerchief, pressing it into his hand.

He wiped at his nose, his arm moving awkwardly but achieving the goal of de-crumbing his face.

“What does she like?” asked Snape. He’d turned his head to watch her watch him. “Besides shortbread biscuits?”

“Unicorns,” I answered. “Saying hi. Peas and apple juice. Staircases – she’s not allowed on them, of course, but she’d love to have a go. The house-elf heads. She’s fascinated by them. The other kids are terrified.”

“You,” Snape added, watching as his daughter tried to feed me a fruit loop. 

I shrugged. It was true – she did like me. But it didn’t mean she couldn’t like him, too.

“We take them out in the garden sometimes,” I said. “They really should spend more time outside, but it’s difficult. The garden isn’t well cared for. She needs a push-chair – Molly said we should go to Diagon Alley and get one made for Wizarding children – they self-level, apparently.”

“I – I have – money.” He looked a bit conflicted, as if he either wasn’t sure he still had any money, or wasn’t sure how much a push-chair would cost.

“No worries,” I said. “I have enough, and you can pay me back later if you want to. I’m happy to help out. You’ll be up on your feet before too long and then….”

“Harry.”

It was the first time he’d used my name, my given name, and I stopped, mouth open, staring at him.

“Months,” he said. “It will be months before I can care for myself.” He looked at Lillian for a long moment, then sighed. “This – this cannot be.”

My face must have fallen, because he frowned and looked away. I couldn’t help but think of how it would have felt to have known I had a father, a father I would never see, who’d given me up, no matter what his reasons were for having done so. 

“You’ll have all the help you need,” I said, the words rushing out. “You can stay here as long as you want – and so can she. You need to get to know her.” I felt a bit desperate, a bit teary even. “She needs you, Professor. She might not know it yet, but she does. She needs to understand when she’s older, what happened, and if you’re part of her life….”

“Potter….”

He’d reverted to the way he used to call me and somehow it hurt.

“I forgot – she likes potions. And snakes – she’s probably going to be a Slytherin.”

“Her mother was a Hufflepuff,” he said, but there was a touch of something in his voice that sounded like amusement, or resignation.

At this point, I’d take either.

ooOOOoo

I think we had him with the reading.

Lillian liked books.

Of _course_ she liked books. 

She sat on your lap, quiet and content, while the story was read aloud. She liked to look at the pictures, but she’d really listen to anything, even stories that didn’t have a lot of illustrations. She’d almost always put her fingers on the page, trying to touch the pictures whether they were animated or still, and sometimes just running her fingertips over the page as if absorbing the texture.

With the rest of the children gone by the end of the week, she was becoming quite attached to me.

Molly and Fleur came to help with Snape, so there was usually another baby around besides Lillian, but she seemed to take the whole thing in stride. She loved to pat Ollie’s cheek and, when Adele was here with Bill or Fleur, they’d sit together on my lap for story time.

Six weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts, I realised I’d not been plagued by nightmares, or hounded by reporters, or even questioned by the Ministry. I was spending nearly all my time at Grimmauld Place. Everyone had fallen into a post-war niche. Ginny and Neville and Luna were helping at Hogwarts. Ron and Hermione were still in Australia, reporting promising results with Hermione’s parents. Arthur and Percy were back at the Ministry, George and Lee and Angelina at the joke shop. Charlie had finally returned to Romania, and Bill and Fleur and Molly were splitting time between their own homes and Grimmauld Place.

And I was falling in love.

Not with Severus. Not yet, anyway. 

I’m not sure how it started, but that little girl wormed her way into my heart and soul and helped heal all the broken places.

I think, had I not been able to show Severus that this was a role worth taking up, a role worth pursuing to the moon and back again, that I’d have spirited her away and disappeared with her into the Muggle world.

By the middle of June, Snape was able to stand up and walk to the loo and back, leaning heavily on one of his caregivers or using the magical canes Madam Pomfrey brought for him. He’d look longingly at the bathtub, and finally Madam Pomfrey relented and said he could have a bath. She and I both had to help him, standing on each side as he lifted one shaky leg, then the other, over the edge of the tall, old-fashioned tub, then lowering himself as we held onto him. I remember how thin he was, and the old scars on his back that could only have come from a belt. 

I remember backing off as he sank into the sudsy water, looking like he’d just died and gone to heaven, a tremulous smile on my face.

“Call me when you need help getting him out,” I said to Madam Pomfrey.

Then I turned tail and fled.

Had his own dad, the violent man I’d skirted by in those memories from long ago, given him those scars with his belt? Did he think he’d be _that_ kind of father himself?

As the days went on, Madam Pomfrey’s visits became shorter, though she still came by for a few minutes every day, and a healer from St. Mungo’s dropped in once a week to test his blood and adjust his potions. 

Snape had started to complain about the quality of those potions and we all took that as a good sign he was on the road to recovery.

Sometimes Ginny came with Molly, and Neville came with her more often than not. He was planning to go back to Hogwarts to retake his final year in September. I’d always liked Neville, but I admired the man he’d become. Ginny liked him too – we’d settled into a comfortable friendship, and there was no bitterness. We didn’t work out and that’s how it was. She loved me like a brother and I’m truly glad she and Nev hit it off so well. Sometimes, Luna dropped by too, and there was always a homey sort of camaraderie with all of us. But as much as we might have looked it, we weren’t kids anymore. I used up most of my nine lives those months on the run, and there was just no going back to how it used to be.

One night, after Ginny and Luna and Nev had all gone, Lillian woke up. It was early – not even ten o’clock – and she usually slept through the night. She wouldn’t settle, so I picked her up, picked out a book, and took her with me upstairs to check on Snape. We’d moved him down one floor, so I only had one set of stairs to climb, and we’d put him in a larger room with better light. He was usually asleep for the night by nine o’clock but lately, as he recovered, he slept less and spent more time reading in the evening.

He was still awake, tucked into his comfortable chair with his feet resting on the ottoman and his dressing gown snugly tied at the waist. He was reading back issues of _The Daily Prophet_ , in order - every one that had been published from the day before the Final Battle forward. 

Lillian greeted him with a tired, “Hi,” not even lifting her head from my shoulder, and he returned her casual greeting with a formal, “Good evening, Miss Lillian.” He never spoke to her as if she were a baby, though he let her press his nose with an inquisitive finger. 

“What’s Papa reading?” I asked. 

She perked up at the word “reading.”

“Book.” It was a fairly new word for her, but one she practiced a lot. Molly was surprised she’d learned to say it so clearly. 

Snape folded the paper and set it aside.

Snape’s chair was wide and soft, and Lillian was a comfortable, heavy weight against me. It was just so natural, in the end, to hand Snape the book, then to lower his daughter and tuck her in at his side. She stiffened but I wasn’t going anywhere, and her eyes were trained on the book in Snape’s hands.

He cleared his throat. It was a reflex action he did frequently now, and likely always would, with the damage inflicted upon him. 

_“A Hogwarts ABC,”_ he read.

He had her interest now.

“Book!”

He glanced at the top of her little head, her sleep-mussed auburn hair standing up at the top. With a sigh, he opened the book, holding it low on his lap so she could see it. He gave me something akin to the evil eye. I settled down on my chair, put my feet up on his bed, and grinned.

“‘Albus Dumbledore, how do you do? Half-moon spectacles and eyes of blue.’”

Lillian gave a noise that was, for her, nearly a squeal of excitement. She extended a finger and touched the old headmaster’s nose, then looked up at Snape’s as he stared down at her. When he looked away, it was to give me a look of incredulity.

“Really, Potter?” he asked but Lillian was already trying to turn the page. He sighed, carefully turned the page, and continued.

“‘Basilisk, basilisk, goes where it likes, hiding in pipes, ready to strike.’”

Lillian reached out and pushed a finger against the cartoon beast’s exaggerated eye.

“Really, Potter?” he repeated, a bit louder this time. “Who wrote this book? Hagrid?”

But he turned the page nonetheless. Lillian beat the book with her hand. He’d come to her favorite page. A Chaser zoomed across the page on what was clearly a faster-than-regulation broomstick.

“‘Quidditch Chaser, make a dash. Score a goal before you crash.’”

The book was charmed so that the crash happened as soon as the word “crash” was read aloud. 

“Oh no!” exclaimed Lillian.

I grinned. I couldn’t help it. Snape – well, he looked like he just might close the book over my head the next time I showed up without Lillian in tow.

He made his way through Detentions, Exploding Snap, Chocolate Frogs and the Grey Lady but paused on H.

“Howlers? Really, Potter? Detentions? This is a _children’s_ book?”

“Wed!” exclaimed Lillian, pointing at the Howler as it folded and unfolded, then blew up into a swirl of confetti.

“More interesting than the _Prophet_ , isn’t it?” I asked.

“You are having entirely too much fun this summer,” Snape scoffed. I was accustomed now to his voice, but others would have been shocked to hear how much it had been damaged. 

“Maybe, but it hasn’t made up for last year yet,” I responded. “Or for the year before that. And….”

“Enough. I agree.”

I looked at him, surprised and a bit touched. Lillian had burrowed in at his side, head resting against the soft cotton of his robe. “Hi!” she exclaimed when she saw me watching her, all bright and cheery as if she had just had a two-hour nap and hadn’t really gone down for the night.

“The nappies, though,” I added, scrunching up my nose.

“Perhaps she needs more fiber,” Snape mused, and the statement tickled me so much I laughed out loud.

“As soon as you can navigate the stairs, you can start helping with them,” I said. I knew I was starting to tread on shaky ground – assuming he’d make her a permanent fixture of his life, add nappy changing to his long list of skills and abilities. But he just gave me an odd look and went back to the book.

But from that day forward, he began to take more than just a passing interest in his daughter and, by the end of June, was conferring with Molly on the child’s needs – clothing and toys and other supplies. He still had reservations, I knew, but the positives were beginning to outweigh the negatives.

It was no small step. Severus Snape had hope.

I knew we had a problem, though, when she learned to say Papa.

She didn’t call every man she saw Papa. She reserved it for her real father.

And for me.

I tried. I tried teaching her “Harry” but she’d have none of it. Her little mind was made up – and she was as stubborn as Snape, if not more so. I tried convincing Snape that she called all men Papa, but he gave me that side-long look that no longer scared me.

When had I stopped being afraid of Severus Snape? Was it in the Shrieking Shack when Nagini nearly killed him? Back here at Grimmauld Place as he lay, still and nearly lifeless, in the healing coma? Was it even more recently, when I saw his face soften – just a bit – when I came into the room with Lillian?

Or was it just before I made the decision to face Voldemort alone, when I was immersed in his memories in the headmaster’s office?

I suppose it didn’t matter. What did matter was that _everything_ had changed. Everything.

I’d let Ginny walk away with no regrets. I’d watched Tom Riddle fall lifeless onto the floor of the Great Hall. I’d discovered a dozen babies in Sirius’ dreary old home and watched them bring life back to a grieving family. I’d watched Severus Snape die – and then witnessed his rebirth, his transformation.

“She calls you Papa because you are the closest thing to a father she has,” he told me one evening in mid July while we ate together in the upstairs parlour where Kreacher brought our evening meal. He watched her chase peas around her plate and shook his head. He’d insisted I give her a spoon, but she scowled at it and used it to fling peas across the floor. “But soon you will be back at Hogwarts. She’ll become more accustomed to me then, though I’ll have to employ a nanny. Molly Weasley has offered to help out while I look for a more permanent solution and, at that time, I will relocate to a cottage in Hogsmeade.” He looked at me then, his gaze narrowing as he read the gobsmacked expression on my face. “You’ll be allowed to visit her whenever you like,” he assured me. “The traditional school rules will not apply to the returning…”

He trailed off, staring at me intently. Lillian picked up a tubular cheesy noodle and licked it.

Why was I suddenly panicking? I was an adult – I’d made my decision.

“I’m not going back,” I said. “I’m – I don’t want to be an Auror. I’ll sit my N.E.W.T.s, but I thought I’d get a private tutor.” My voice rose, higher-pitched than I liked, betraying my emotions. “I discussed this with Professor McGonagall, and the Weasleys,” I said. “They’re all fine with it.”

“You did not discuss it with me,” he said, as if there was no more discussion necessary.

“You were in a coma!” I exclaimed. 

Now both Snapes were glaring at me and I would have laughed if I wasn’t so incensed.

“I have been awake for nearly two months and mobile for a month,” he said. “So – discuss.”

I felt like a student again, even though he had opened the door for discussion – he was willing to hear me out.

“I’ve outgrown Hogwarts,” I said, trying to sound mature and not petulant.

“Your friend Hermione Granger is returning,” he replied. “She is older than you, and she shared nearly all of your experiences last year.”

“But….” My argument that Hermione was _Hermione_ – that she would feel cheated if she didn’t finish her Hogwarts curriculum – would really not fly with Snape.

“Neville Longbottom is returning and arguably, he has even less reason to than you. He’s outgrown far more than you have.”

“Git,” I muttered, but Snape was smiling. “He’s not _that_ tall.”

Now Snape chuckled. Lillian swiveled her head to look at him, then her face broke out in a toothy grin and she shoved some more smashed peas into her mouth.

“If you don’t want to be an Auror, what do you plan to do with your life?” Snape wiped his mouth with his serviette – his hands still trembled a bit, but every day was a little bit better than the one before.

I looked over at Lillian and stuck out my tongue at her. She stuck hers out in reply. I grinned.

“Your nanny, maybe?” I suggested. I was only half-joking.

Snape dropped his head into his hands and sighed.

“This summer – this summer has been good for you,” he said at last, sitting up again and folding his hands on the table. He wasn’t joking now – he had something to say and he was ready to lay it on the table, so to speak. “Very good.” He swept his hand to the side to indicate Lillian. “These babies – these children – they have given you a fresh look at the world and at yourselves. But babies grow up, Harry, and so too do seventeen-year-old wizards. Hogwarts is the best place for you next year. Professor McGonagall has attempted to confer with you – to explain how students of your age will be dealt with this term.”

“I told her I’m not interested,” I said. I was starting to get uncomfortable. Didn’t they know my mind was made up? I’d help Snape with Lillian until he could care for her on his own, then I’d do a bit of traveling. George had invited me to join then at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, and I’d thought about playing Quidditch professionally – I was pretty sure I’d be hired on my name alone, but I wasn’t half bad, really. I’d considered going into broom making, or broom design, or hell, even broom sales. And if I couldn’t break in that way, maybe I’d even sweep floors for a living.

I’d hesitated, and he watched me as I bit my bottom lip and fought back the urge to let it all spill out. All the things I might want to do. All the places I could go. This new potential me that wasn’t tied to my past – to Hogwarts.

“Why don’t you clean her up and put her down for a nap for an hour or two?” Snape said. He stood up, grasping a cane in each hand as he maneuvered himself around his chair. “Then come to the parlour – you have things to say.”

Not, “I have things to say.”

_You have things to say._

I thought about it as I settled Lillian in for a nap – bad idea, of course. She’d be up half the night now. I thought about it some more as I took my time in the kitchen, watching Kreacher wash sippy cup lids and drone on and on about the scratches on the baseboards from the little ones’ toys. And I thought about it as I slowly climbed the stairs, feeling just a tiny bit as I had when I walked into the Forbidden Forest with my parents and Sirius and Remus at my side.

Facing my destiny.

I reminded myself that I was a grownup. I’d be eighteen in a matter of days. I had an inheritance from my parents, another from Sirius. I could do what I wanted. I’d already spent my entire life doing what other people wanted me to do – needed me to do. 

Why couldn’t I be selfish for a change?

When I opened the parlour door, Snape was sitting in a wingback chair, holding a crystal glass of amber liquid. Another glass sat on the coffee table in front of the loveseat and he gestured to the seat, and to the drink.

“Sip it slowly,” he instructed. “It is not butterbeer.”

The light was fading outside. The wall sconces flickered and a pleasant breeze ruffled the curtains. I sipped the liquid and it burned pleasantly, but warmed my belly.

We chit-chatted until I’d put away the majority of the Firewhisky.

Then we talked.

Well, I did most of the talking. Severus listened.

He’d asked me to call him that – Severus – just after I’d taken my seat. I tried the word out and realised I _could_ say it. He wasn’t my professor anymore. He was – well, a friend. Or beginning to be one. Something more than that – someone whose past was tangential to mine. Someone who’d been chewed up and spat out and used and who’d got up to do it all over again.

By the end of the evening, I had a pleasant buzz from a second glass of Firewhiskey and I’d agreed that I should give eighth year a try. Well, I’d agreed to meet with Professor McGonagall the next day, anyway. Severus looked smug. Alright – satisfied. 

He thought I was running away, hiding from the rest of the Wizarding world. He pointed out that I’d only been back to Hogwarts once – for the funerals. That I’d been to Diagon Alley only once – to buy baby supplies with Molly. That I’d not even been to the Burrow.

It didn’t take a genius to realise they’d all been talking about me. That he and Molly and Arthur, Professor McGonagall too, were worried about me. That they’d given me time – time to spend with the kids, to relax, to recover. But it couldn’t last forever. I needed mentoring.

That was Professor McGonagall.

And I needed parenting.

That’s where Arthur and Molly came in.

And I needed an adult friend.

Enter Severus.

ooOOOoo

Lillian Eileen Snape was sixteen months old when I kissed her goodbye on the morning of September 1st, 1998.

I’d been spending a bit more time away from Grimmauld Place these past weeks. I’d been appointed the student assistant to the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor – Professor Natalie Hardscrabble, a veteran on the Aurors’ corps who’d been wounded in the final battle. She’d lost her left leg below the knee but was surprisingly spry already. 

In mid-August, I’d gone on a four-day holiday with Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville and Luna to Shell Cottage. 

They were worried about me going back there, I think. I went out to see Dobby the first day, and sat by his tiny grave and watched the waves pound the shore.

Life goes on, they say. The sun rises, the sun sets, the waves pound the shore. Babies are born, people die. 

The wind kissed my face as Luna touched my shoulder. I reached my hand back to clasp hers. 

Friends. 

Old friends – and new.

Severus and Lillian moved into a cottage in Hogsmeade just before Christmas.

I saw them nearly every weekend. Severus helped me get through Potions that year, and he and Professor McGonagall arranged for me to spend fall break interning with Wizarding Child Protective Services, a relatively new department that hadn’t been in vogue when I was a child. We spent the week doing in-home visits, one of which was an unscheduled drop-in to the home of Rodolphus LeStrange’s sister to check in on little Thaddeus. He didn’t remember me – how could he? – but he was robust and healthy, happy and loved. 

Over Christmas, they set me up to shadow a Pediatric Healer at St. Mungo’s. And surprise, surprise – over midterm break in the spring, I found myself at a pre-school in Hogsmeade.

I was also recruited by the Tornados and the Wasps. I’d have been a fool not to sign.

Severus and Lillian went with me to the signing. She’d just had her second birthday, was talking up a storm, and had shortened my name to ‘Pa. She walked between us, holding our hands and occasionally lifting her feet and swinging, her little bottom nearly scraping the ground. 

There was a party at the Burrow afterwards, with all the Weasleys, Andromeda and Teddy, Neville and his gran, Luna and her father. Hagrid came too, and Professor McGonagall, and a couple more from my year like Dean and Seamus and Hannah. Ginny and Neville had settled into a tight friendship, but she’d set her eyes on a Quidditch career as well, and had signed with the Harpies the same day I’d signed with the Wasps. 

I took Teddy for his first broom ride that night, a close-to-the-ground slow speed jaunt that made him squeal with delight. I handed him over to his granny and heard Lillian, having a bit of a fit and trying to get away from Severus. Clearly, she wanted a ride on the broom but her overprotective father had his reservations.

“Pa!” she exclaimed, red-faced and furious. Everyone laughed. They’d heard it before, of course, but as I went over to scoop her up, I leaned down and whispered, “Spoil sport,” into Severus’ ear. My hand was on his shoulder and I didn’t think then about how casual the gesture was, nor how intimate. But I caught Hermione looking speculative, and she’d take me aside later and ask about my feelings for Severus. I laughed it off, of course, but I wasn’t laughing inside. 

Severus eventually relented and let Lillian ride with me. She clearly loved it – almost as much as I loved having my little girl in front of me, waving to Severus as we passed, all two years old and on top of the world.

ooOOOoo

A Quidditch career can only last so long. Mine ended rather abruptly midway through my third year with the Wasps when, while diving for the Snitch, I got between a Chaser and the Bludger, breaking all the bones in my right hand.

All twenty-seven of them.

I woke up in St. Mungo’s – I’d passed out from the pain, apparently – and found that it wasn’t Ron who’d come to the hospital, or Hermione, or Molly Weasley, but Severus Snape. 

Later I’d be told that they were all there, in the waiting room, but that Severus had been the one to step forward when the healer had emerged to tell them I was waking up.

It wasn’t that we’d been strangers these past three years. I’d seen him often, helping out in the apothecary he’d bought in Hogsmeade, spending time with Lillian, reading to her and taking her on broom rides. Staying over, sometimes, arguing politics with Severus over pasta and wine when Lillian was sleeping, helping him brew fever reducer and Skele-gro in the off-season.

When had he become something more than a friend? Something less than another mentor?

He wiped the sweaty hair from my eyes and I grimaced what I hoped was a smile through the pain.

“Stupid Bludger,” I said, my voice raw. Ron told me later I’d screamed myself hoarse when one of the referees had lifted my hand to assess the damage.

“Could have been much worse,” he said pragmatically. He didn’t chastise me for my stupidity, or insist that I give up the game, or worry incessantly over my future. But he held my left hand as the Skele-gro began to take hold and, when they moved me into a private room to wait out the night, he settled in the chair beside my bed, opened his book and read far into the night, a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

I think I fell in love with him then, or I did in my dreams. It surprised me, but I think I was the only one who was surprised in the end. Severus had certainly seen it coming, in the stoic, patient manner he’d adopted during and after his long recovery, but had unselfishly watched the bird fly, perhaps hoping I’d return, perhaps knowing that I would.

I fell asleep in his bed the next night. We’d been reading to Lillian before bed but my pain potion was kicking in, and I closed my eyes and listened to Severus’ voice read _The Littlest Unicorn_ once, twice, three times. “One more time, Papa. One more time!” I was still there in the morning, left arm flung over Severus’ middle, and there I stayed for the rest of our years.

I worked at the Hogsmeade preschool until the children were in Hogwarts, then joined the Wizarding Children’s Services as a field investigative agent. The job had elements of the Auror career I’d considered, but I never regretted turning my head in a different direction all those years ago.

Lillian was eight when Liam Albus was born – a miracle child all of four pounds six ounces, a mop of dark hair and a good set of lungs. I’d really not believed Severus at all when he told me it was possible – that potions and magic and spells could allow us to have a child. Allow me to carry that child inside me: for Severus to place his hand on my belly and feel our son kick and move and stretch. I don’t think I really believed it until I felt that kick, and didn’t trust it would all work out until the mediwitch placed the tiny bundle in my arms.

It’s quiet here now, with Lillian off at uni and Liam at Hogwarts, but we can pop over to the Burrow at any time if it gets too lonely, or if the echo of our footsteps in the empty house becomes too oppressive. Or we can tumble into bed together, and I can wrap my arms around Severus and whisper off colour secrets in his ear. Make him laugh, deep and throaty, make him threaten to make me come without touching me, tell me he wants another child with me, wants to see my belly grow and take me from behind when I’m round and glowing, high on hormones, panting with need.

It almost makes me want another baby.

I kiss him – on the mouth I’ve come to love, the mouth that spews sarcasm and wit and insults, that recites poetry, that whispers words of adoration. I kiss his nose, as Lillian still does, kiss the corner of his eye, the juncture of shoulder and neck. He presses me back into the mattress, straddles my body and growls at me to be still, calls me an impertinent whelp, tells me I am his – his heart, his soul, his life, his everything. We make love like it is our very first time, careful but exuberant, testing limits, intent on each other’s pleasure. And after, I lie with my head on his chest, hearing the rumble of his belly, the beat of his heart, and I’m anchored to him, to this bed we share, these walls around us, this life we’ve built together.

We haven’t been forgotten in the Wizarding world – we’ve made a splash here and there, but all in all we’ve faded out of notoriety, faded into a commonplace life, a commonplace love. 

It’s not the life I thought I’d live. It’s not the love I thought I’d have. Perhaps it was fated from the time Albus set Severus over my life, made him my protector. Or from the time he saved me with those memories, and ended up in Grimmauld Place with a little girl who would one day call him Papa.

Life has a way of sweeping you along with it, despite your efforts to dig your heels in. It’s a rollercoaster, with ups and downs, frantic turns on two wheels and endless uphill climbs before the exhilarating free-falls.

I used to wonder how Severus could love me. He’d loved my mother beyond death. Had had a child with Charity Burbage. I’d never asked him about that – it lived in a very dark corner of his mind, with the guilt that he could never shed – that he was responsible for her death. But he told me bits and pieces over the years, and the story went like this:

He’d pursued her during my fifth year, when Umbridge made the faculty’s lives miserable. He did it because he was ordered to do it, but they’d found they actually enjoyed each other’s company. They were friends who became casual lovers and, when she found out she was pregnant, he was afraid and begged her to hide it – told her she wasn’t safe and broke off their relationship. Too late – too late – though she used a concealing charm at Hogwarts, her friends knew, and word made its way back through the social circles to Voldemort.

And when Charity Burbage was dead, Voldemort himself had pressed the squalling child in Severus’ arms and he’d once again found himself alone in a room, grief-stricken, with a crying child he could not calm.

Life _is_ a rollercoaster. Love _does_ hurt. But life…and love…are also gentle spring rains, and slow walks on the beach. Sunsets and moonrises, butterfly kisses on your nose, sipping coffee on the porch at sunrise while the fog lifts from the streets of Hogsmeade. Life is picking up the pieces, shaking yourself off and putting those pieces back together into new shapes, new combinations. And love is hope, simple gifts like a cup of hot tea pressed into your hands when you’re working late. It’s being tucked into bed when you’re sick, kissed awake in the middle of the night to make love under the stars, and waking in the morning, spooned against the one you love.

**Author's Note:**

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